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I wept to think that life went on even when so much had been lost, that rain still fell and myrtle grew between the rocks.

Alice Hoffman

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Alice Hoffman
Age: 72
Born: 1952
Born: March 16
Novelist
Screenwriter
Writer
New York City
New York
Stills
Myrtle
Still
Wept
Even
Fell
Much
Rain
Think
Rocks
Thinking
Grew
Life
Went
Lost

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The voice that arises out of the silence is something no one can imagine until it is heard. It roars when it speaks, it lies to you and convinces you, it steals from you and leaves you without a single word of comfort.
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You don't fight for peace sister,' Nahara told me, 'You embrace it.
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My theory is that everyone at one time or another has been at the fringe of society in some way: an outcast in high school, a stranger in a foreign country, the best at something, the worst at something, the one who's different. Being an outsider is the one thing we all have in common.
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I read The Group by Mary McCarthy. It had tons of sex in it, or so I thought at the time.
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Even in times when it's difficult to figure out, how do you go forward, art - and books - always help
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Certain things need not be said, and there’s nothing, not a whisper, prayer, not a sacrifice, not a payment of any price, that would change what’s about to happen.
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Every time I finish a book, I forget everything I learned writing it - the information just disappears out of my head
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I also like the whole idea of fairy tales and folk tales being a woman's domain, considered a lesser domain at the time they were told.
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This day is going to be awful. It's the sort of day you wouldn't mind losing completely, even if it meant your life would be twenty-four hours shorter.
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Others said May was best, that sweet green time when lilacs bloomed and gardens along Main Street were filled with sugary pink peonies and Dutch tulips.
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He has the ability to catch someone by the way that he looks at her, and make her wish he would go on looking.
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I thought of the bowl of water my mother taught me to look into. It was true, everything a person ever needed to know was right there in a single bowl small enough to fit in the palm of one hand.
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Outside, the September air was enticingly fragrant, yellow with pollen and rich, lemony sunlight.
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Love was like that, like a dream you didn't quite understand, one in which you didn't necessarily know what you were looking at until it was right in front of you.
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I never plot out my novels in terms of the tone of the book. Hopefully, once a story is begun it reveals itself
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Another world must surely exist somewhere one where she would be known in some deep way that was far beyond words.
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He believed in dreams, in endings that people told you could never happen, in disappointments reversed and luck that lasted.
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Some fates are guaranteed, no matter who tries to intervene.
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Fairytales were maps formed of blood and hair and bones they were the knots of the sub-conscious unwound. Every word in every tale was real and as true as apples and stones. They all led to the story inside the story.
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The original fairy tale was about the youngest sister going into a room in the castle and finding all the bodies of the wives that came before her - she is confronted with truth, thinking about how often we think we know people and we really don't.
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